


The Bookshop

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Deleted Scene: Aziraphale's Bookshop 1800 (Good Omens), M/M, Other, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:46:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28693437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: Aziraphale doesn't need the bookshop, as such. But he wants it for one very important reason.A reason that's just brought him chocolates.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 73





	The Bookshop

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [your lips come as some surprise, that they would want to come and meet mine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24114142) by [CaffeineChic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaffeineChic/pseuds/CaffeineChic). 



> Hello! This has been in my 'to-write' list for absolutely ages now, so I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> It was inspired by a line in 'your lips come as some surprise, that they would want to come and meet mine' by CaffeineChic, which is lovely and I highly recommend it. (Let me know if you want me to remove the 'inspired by' tag and I will, no problem.)
> 
> With apologies to _The Omen_ , also.

Aziraphale looked around one last time, at the rows and rows of shelves, already almost full, that made up his new home. He didn’t _need_ a home, of course, not strictly speaking; _an angel’s work is never done,_ and _there is no rest for the good,_ and _it’s always 9am somewhere,_ as Gabriel always said. He didn’t need a place to rest, to call his own, but he had it now - and, if nothing else, it was somewhere to store his material possessions. Of course, Gabriel didn’t see why he needed those either - the clothes, yes, but not the rest of the little trinkets he’d accumulated over the centuries, and certainly not the books - but Aziraphale _did_ need them, and he was determined, whatever else Gabriel might deny him, that he would have them. He would have a place to keep them, he would have a place where visitors might carefully peruse them, and he might even allow the occasional customer to carry their prize home. Possibly. If they _really_ needed it.

Predominantly, though, the bookshop and all of its contents were for his use, and his use alone. He needed all these books, all these words, all this _knowledge,_ because… well. He simply did.

The previous day, just as the shop was almost ready, he’d had visitors. Distinctly unfriendly ones, who’d offered him a promotion and a return to Heaven with the air of two beings who’d gift-wrapped a bear trap. Aziraphale knew that the other angels didn’t understand why he liked being stationed on Earth, but surely they knew that he _did_. Inviting him to come home probably hadn't been a deliberate act of malice, but the fact that they’d backtracked so quickly at the slightest wile from Crowley suggested that it wasn’t exactly an order they were attached to.

Michael, in his bookshop. The very idea of it.

Oh, yes, Crowley had definitely had something to do with the sudden change of plan. He hadn’t said anything, but Aziraphale could tell from the way he’d swaggered in half an hour after Gabriel had returned to Heaven, smiling crookedly like the cat that got the cream. He’d brought chocolates.

He’d brought chocolates, and he’d draped himself across a chaise longue Aziraphale had rather hoped he might like - and which Aziraphale was sure they would both consider _Crowley’s_ from that moment on - and he hadn’t suspected, even for a moment, that the bookshop was as much for his benefit as for Aziraphale’s. After all, Crowley was a creature of constant questions, of boundless curiosity. He was endlessly inquisitive, and since he always had questions, Aziraphale had long ago resolved to always have the answers for him. Now, at long last, he had a vast repository of knowledge at his fingertips at all times.

Crowley had asked questions the previous evening, too, of course.

“What’s in that corner?” 

He’d pointed to where various books on botany that referred to the deadliest poisons resided behind glass; Aziraphale had told him so and admired the open desire in his face, the barely-restrained twitch of his hands as the demon longed to reach out for the forbidden knowledge.

“Why have you got so many copies of the Bible? Surely you know it inside out by now.”

They were misprints, every one of them, and when Aziraphale had explained, he’d watched comprehension dawn in Crowley’s expression; misprinted Holy Books didn’t sting demons the way properly sanctified texts would. Crowley would feel no ill-effects from being near such books; he could read them, if he chose. His gaze had lingered on the spines for a moment before he’d turned his attention elsewhere.

“Why do you want a bookshop, anyway, angel?”

And Aziraphale had known he couldn’t tell him the truth, not exactly. They couldn’t acknowledge whatever tentative friendship they’d formed, and Aziraphale certainly didn’t want to give Crowley the impression of a stronger regard than existed. The longing in Crowley’s eyes, sometimes, when he removed his sunglasses and let his guard down, made Aziraphale’s heart ache in answer. He didn’t want to lead Crowley on, or embarrass him, or make him feel self-conscious about his inquisitive nature.

“I’m sorry?” He was stalling, and Crowley probably knew it; he had excellent hearing, all angels did. But the fiend only smiled lazily and repeated himself.

“Why d’you want a bookshop? Why not sell, I don’t know… snuffboxes, or hats?”

“Ah.” Aziraphale thought for a moment more, then spread his hands as if to say _isn’t it obvious?_

_“All thoughts, all passions, all delights,_

_Whatever stirs this mortal frame,_

_All are but ministers of Love,_

_And feed his sacred flame.” [1] _

“Ah,” Crowley nodded, “poetry. Of course, makes sense. Surrounding yourself with beautiful words, I should have seen that.”

_It’s all for you,_ Aziraphale wanted to tell him, _of course it’s all for you._ But he wasn’t ready to admit to the depths of his feelings towards Crowley, not yet, not even to himself, and so he simply shrugged.

“Yes, quite. Poetry.”

Now, alone in his bookshop, Aziraphale picked up the empty box of chocolates from the corner where it had fallen, and collected the two wine glasses and the bottle that had been discarded by the chaise. He pushed the glass back into place over the poison books, and pretended not to notice where a single black feather had been tucked into a gap where once the _Buggre Alle This_ Bible had sat.

Aziraphale’s bookshop held all the answers he was ever likely to have to most questions, and as he flung open the doors to the public for the first time, he couldn’t help but wonder when his dearest friend would return to ask them.

When he did, Aziraphale would be ready.

He settled behind the counter with a book about the mysteries of the cosmos, glared at a customer who looked inclined to make a purchase, and began to read.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 ['Love'](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43993/love-56d222e917181), Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1799 AD. [return to text]


End file.
